


Here Comes the Turn

by Lise



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, I don't really have a whole lot of tags for this, Natasha Makes Big Life Changing Decisions, Natasha Needs a Hug, Natasha-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is made of choices. Clint Barton gave her the chance, but it was Natalia Alianovna Romanov who took it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes the Turn

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this since about forever, and finally, finally managed to finish it to my satisfaction. What I wanted to do was write a Natasha who's not so sure of herself, who finds herself in the position where she has to make a big, life changing decision with very little information, where Clint made a different call but Natasha had to make one too. 
> 
> Here's to Black Widow. 
> 
> With thanks to [ameliarating](http://ameliarating.tumblr.com), my tireless beta.

He turned his back to her to make the call and she looked at him and thought of seven ways to kill him. She stayed where she was, though, seated on a fraying couch, and tried diligently to overhear the conversation.

This all, Natasha thought, seemed vaguely surreal.

She let her eyes follow him as he moved around the room, one hand holding an ice pack to his head, the other holding the phone to his ear as he talked rapidly in a low voice. She probably wouldn’t have picked him out in the street, his body compact, face relatively unremarkable. He was good, too. No one had gotten that close to her for a long time. He might even have been able to kill her, if he hadn’t…

_I have an offer for you._

He hung up, finally, muttered something at his phone, and turned to look at her. “Want anything?”

Natasha started slightly, refocusing on the man in front of her. He was looking at her expectantly in a way that made her skin prickle. “No,” she said, after a moment, “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “ _I’m_ hungry. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Surreal. Yes.

Natasha reached for the file in her mind. Clint Barton. Hawkeye. SHIELD operative. Had a reputation in her circles, that he never missed a target, figuratively or literally. She’d expected to run into him eventually, but on the other end of the knife. Retrospectively, that had probably been short sighted.

He wasn’t the first to hunt her down. Far from it. That he’d come from SHIELD, though…that was new. Attention she didn’t want. Maybe it was time for a change. That was what she was good at, after all; adapting. A tool could be used by anyone.

_That’s what you are, Natalia. A tool. A weapon._

_Or maybe not._

“Macaroni and cheese sound good to you?” His voice drifted out from the kitchen. “Feeling a little lazy.”

“I thought I said-”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He didn’t sound upset. “I make a mean mac ‘n cheese, though.” She stared at the doorway into the kitchen, as close as she could get to his back. Yeah. Not what she’d expected. _I have an offer for you,_ he’d said. They’d been fighting, hand to hand, and she could have won, probably, if she’d kept fighting. But…he’d said that, and she’d stopped. _Why?_ Another puzzle. Natasha tugged at that one, trying to work the knot loose.

“I was expecting you to have more of an accent. Heh. I guess that was stupid.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at the man she couldn’t see. “You were on the phone for some time.”

“Was I? Huh. I guess so.” He didn’t sound too concerned. Thoroughly nonchalant, in fact. Natasha tensed.

“What were they saying?” _What are they expecting from me,_ the question underneath that. She might know it was all lies and propaganda, but old stories kept dancing in her head that she’d used to believe the West and all its bogeymen. She might not believe those stories anymore, but she also knew now that there were worse things than stories in the world. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe this was worse. Her way, at least she had some choice whose weapon she was. At least…

_Don’t try to fool yourself, Natasha, girl. You know your options, and there aren’t many of them. Maybe it’ll be better._

“Just logistics,” Barton was saying. “Not exactly the call they were expecting. Takes a bit to switch gears.” The itch of sitting still was starting to get to her. She clasped her hands together in her lap and held it in. “But they’ve worked it out now,” he added, so perhaps she didn’t do as well at disguising her unease as she thought.

“Mm.” She pinched the meat of her left hand with her nails, dispelling the urge to twitch. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was whirling, and she didn’t think she’d have been able to sleep here anyway. Not with a man she still couldn’t entirely rule out as an enemy her only cover.

She’d learned her paranoia well.

There were only a few minutes of silence. Natasha wondered absently if Barton was always this talkative, or if, perhaps, he felt as uneasy with this situation as she did. “So. Natalia Romanova. That your real name?”

“It’s good enough.” If she’d ever had another, given to her by her parents, perhaps…she’d never known it.

“What do your friends call you?”

“I don’t have friends,” she said, plainly. Had, maybe. But not…it had been a while. She pushed those thoughts back. The silence only lasted a moment.

“Do you have a lighter? I can’t get mine to work.”

She stared at the empty doorway for a moment, then stood up and padded into the kitchen on quiet feet. _What are you playing at,_ she wanted to ask. _What’s your game? Your handlers wanted me dead and you could have killed me from a distance. So why… There is a game here. Just because I don’t know it yet…_

There was a pot of water on the stove, though, a box of pasta to his left. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Lighter?” She pulled hers from her pocket and held it out, wordlessly. He gave her a strange look and then took it and deftly lit the stove. “Not very talkative, are you.”

“When I don’t have a reason to be."

“My charming company isn’t reason enough?” She stared at him, but he had already turned back to the stove. After a moment, he added, “All right, all right, fair enough. But you haven’t even asked me questions about the offer.”

Of course not, she wanted to say. Asking questions would indicate a level of interest I’m not ready to betray yet. “I figured you would explain it when you were willing to,” Natasha said neutrally, at length. Barton looked at her for a while, seeming to be thinking about something. _Not unwary,_ she decided. _This is a performance, too._ He wasn’t a spy, though. She was sure of that: the way he talked was too direct, the way he carried himself all wrong. She would’ve guessed even if she weren’t familiar with him professionally. After a few moments, he turned back to the water and turned the stove up.

“You seem to have gotten tenser since I stopped trying to kill you,” he said, eventually. Natasha wasn’t sure if she was irritated that she had, or irritated that he’d noticed. She kept her face from showing either.

“Unfamiliar territory,” she said finally, dryly, and Barton actually snorted, though she wasn’t entirely certain it had been a joke. Maybe a bit of both.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fair enough.”

She considered telling him the rest of the truth – that she hadn’t ruled out that this was part of his plan – and decided to keep that card to herself. Watching him cook pasta on a gas stove in a safe house was starting to dispel that idea, though. Perhaps that was the point.

Natasha hadn’t lived as long as she had by trusting easily, and whatever she was doing here…and she still couldn’t be certain what she was doing here.

“So,” Barton said eventually, after the silence. “I guess I haven’t introduced myself.”

“I know who you are,” she said. “Clint Francis Barton. Marksman and assassin in the employ of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.” She considered reciting the rest of her mental file, just to bother him, and dismissed the idea as petty. When he glanced at her, she shrugged. “It _is_ my job to know things, and I try to keep abreast of potential targets.”

“You’re not really about making people feel comfortable, are you,” Barton said, after a moment, but he didn’t sound particularly bothered.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Barton looked at her, seeming to be considering something, and then smirked. “Good to know I’ve got a reputation.” She raised her eyebrows at him, the corners of her mouth twitching just slightly. She controlled herself. _Keep your distance, Natasha. Be careful._ He turned back to the stove and she watched his back, hovering. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” He asked again.

 “No,” she said, again. He would not wear her down, whatever the purpose of this was. She did add a, “thank you.” There was no need to be excessively rude, not until she could figure out his game.

“Okay, okay. Just checking.” He was not, Natasha thought, what she would have expected. She knew he was ruthless and efficient, as any good killer needed to be, but she had not considered much beyond that. _Likes macaroni and cheese,_ she added to her mental file, just in case. It might be useful at some point.

She retreated back into the living room and paced through it, noting small details like the books on the shelves (non-fiction, mostly historical) and the pot with a dead plant in it. She didn’t go near the windows and didn’t relax. Her feet itched and she wished she were moving. Waiting; Natasha had never been very good at waiting, or being still.

_I have an offer for you,_ he’d said, voice quick and his eyes intent and piercing. _The organization I work for has a place for someone with your skills. Come in with me and you can have it._

Natasha had sneered. There had been blood dripping from a cut above her eyebrow (now scabbed over). _Do you expect me to believe that?_ She had demanded, but she had hesitated, too.

_Believe it or not,_ Clint Barton aka Hawkeye said, _my organization doesn’t waste good operatives._

She picked up one of the books off the shelf, a history of the French Revolution, and flipped through it. There were notes in the margins, underlining and highlights throughout. The handwriting was a messy scrawl but legible enough to read. She heard a stirring in the kitchen and shoved the book hastily back, stepping away from the shelf like a guilty child. Barton emerged from the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon in one hand.

“There’s some bandages and shit in the bathroom,” he said, “if you want to clean up. Towels in the hall closet, I think. The water won’t be very hot but it should be all right.”

Natasha stared at him, very nearly uncomprehending. He was treating her like a guest, not an enemy agent he was bringing in, and she was at a loss for how to cope with it. There was no file in her mental database for this situation and she was not sure what the safest option was. Barton raised his eyebrows at her and after a moment she simply nodded.

“Door locks from the inside,” he added, and went back into the kitchen. Natasha hesitated a moment before retreating to the bathroom. The door did indeed lock from the inside, but she had no doubt that Barton could pick it if he wished. There was nothing to block it with, however, and she had become acutely aware of the layer of grime on her skin and the ache of her bruises and strained muscles. Natasha turned on the shower and waited to the count of one hundred and twenty, watching the door, before stepping under the spray.

The tub was small and there was a yellow ring around the inside, but the water was hot and it was better than nothing. Natasha ducked her head under the water and ran her fingers through her hair, very nearly luxuriating in it. She used the bottle of shampoo in the corner to wash her hair and her body and then stood under the spray, thinking.

What if this offer was what it seemed to be? She tried to think of what she knew about SHIELD and what it came to was _too little._ A United States based covert organization she’d crossed paths with before. Grew out of the Strategic Scientific Reserve after the second World War. Their agents were largely competent with a few standouts, Barton among them. She didn’t doubt they recruited some enemy agents, but that they’d sent Barton after her meant they considered her a danger. But…

He could have killed her. She didn’t think he’d made the rookie mistake of getting too close just to see if he could. Barton was a sniper: he could have picked her off from a distance and never taken a risk, and she wouldn’t be standing here now. Why the elaborate charade if this wasn’t a sincere offer?

Except that it could be a sincere offer and still not one she wanted to take. There weren’t good guys and bad guys in the real world, and it was entirely possible that SHIELD just wanted to get into her head and reprogram her for their own purposes. She’d been working for herself and gotten used to it-

_No, you’re not working for yourself. Not really._ Natasha pushed the thought away and switched off the water as it started to go cold. She dried her hair, toweling herself off briskly before pulling out the first aid kit and swiping some antibiotic ointment on the worst of her cuts, though none of them were serious. The one above her eyebrow had started bleeding again and she slapped a bandage over it, looking at her bedraggled reflection in the foggy mirror before turning around and putting her clothes back on.

She emerged from the bathroom. Barton was sitting on the squishy, battered looking chair eating from a steaming bowl. There was another on the coffee table. “In case you change your mind,” Barton said casually. It did smell good. Rich and cheesy, but her stomach was clenched too tight for hunger.

“What do you want?” She asked abruptly. Barton looked at her, and whatever he saw in her face made his genial expression shift into something more serious. He set down the bowl on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“What do you mean?”

“In exchange,” Natasha fired back. For all the steam and the heat of the shower, her muscles were still coiled tight. “For not killing me. What’s your angle?”

He looked at her for a long moment, plainly considering his answer. “You’re good at what you do,” he said. “Maybe the best.”

Natasha wanted to laugh. “Waste not, want not? Is that it? That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Would you believe any answer I gave you?” He asked, and that was…a fair question. _What do you want him to say? Ask for sex, or if you can kill someone for him, or…?_ She said nothing, just waited, and after a moment he blew out an exhale. “How about this – when my boss chews me out about not obeying orders, you prove me right by being the same damn good agent for SHIELD as you were out there. Sound doable?”

She eyed him. “If they want me dead what’s going to make them follow your lead?” Natasha asked, voice sharp. Barton picked up his bowl.

“Because they trust my judgment,” he said calmly. “They know I’m not stupid and I wouldn’t make a call like this without a good reason.”

_And what_ is _that reason,_ she wanted to ask again, but held it back. She chewed on her lip again, caught herself and made herself stop. Childish habits that still lingered. Barton’s spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl and he sucked on it, apparently ignoring her. Natasha sat down on the couch and folded her hands together, looking toward the door.

“What made you accept?” Barton asked. He sounded genuinely curious. She eyed him, and thought of all the men she’d seen and used and been used by. Those who had claimed to know what she was, who had shaped her and crafted a weapon from a person and been surprised when the weapon struck back.

_I am not what they made of me,_ she’d told herself, over and over again, in the years since. _I am not their weapon,_ and in the process she’d been that of a hundred others’. Maybe this was just the same. But the world said _change or die_ and she would change. And maybe carve herself out somewhere in the middle.

“I made a choice,” she said, simply, doubting he would understand, but he nodded like he did.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”


End file.
